


With the Promise of Tomorrow

by bodtlings



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M, SO MUCH FLUFF, hope u enjoy!, i am actually proud of this, its all just fluff tbh, jm secret santa, starbucks and trost shopping complex and snow oh my
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-02-28 17:28:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2740919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bodtlings/pseuds/bodtlings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The whole reason Jean walks around at night during the Christmas season in Trost Shopping Center is because no one else is around. It's deserted, the street lamps and decorations the only signs of human existence in the area, but Jean thinks it's peaceful, and he loves it.</p><p>So why is there a man sitting on a bench in front of the biggest Christmas tree in town?</p>
            </blockquote>





	With the Promise of Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> this turned out muCH longer than i initially intended, my god. anyway, this was for the jeanmarco secret santa and my lovely secret santa was [alyssa](http://buckynats.tumblr.com/) ! special thanks to [kaden](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Gootbuttheichou) for being my beta <3
> 
> enjoy!

The days leading up to, and especially after, Thanksgiving are when the Christmas decorations go up. Storefronts light the streets with their fluorescence, trees sporting lights on strings of all colors stand proud, and the atmosphere is nothing short of peaceful and exciting. Everyone’s joy for the holiday season goes into thousands of decorations and seeing who can find the ugliest sweater in existence seems to be a game with the townspeople, even if most of them don’t realize they’re playing. 

Despite what everyone thinks, and despite his apathetic expression (“chronic bitch face”, Eren calls it), every time the winter holidays roll around, Jean Kirschtein loves Christmas. He loves peppermint mochas from Starbucks and gentle snow falling at night and hearing Christmas carols on every single radio station. He loves ugly sweaters and out-of-tune singing and Christmas cookies. The second Thanksgiving ends, Jean is in full-swing Christmas mode and nothing will stand in his way of achieving full-blown Christmas spirit.

Trost is gorgeous during this time of year, what with all the decorations and general happiness of its inhabitants, but Jean’s most favorite part is at night. The day is full of bustling people doing their last minute shopping and buying supplies they ran out of, but at night, everyone is gone. People are holed up in their homes with warm drinks, movies with their family members, and generally staying out of the biting cold and snow. Some kids in the neighborhood dawdle to play and make snowmen, but they go in shortly after they’ve emerged from their houses, and the quietness among the streets is restored.

Nighttime is Jean’s favorite time because he gets to be away – away from his family, away from his friends, away from everything. He’s taken to walking along the streets aimlessly, no particular direction in mind, but during the holidays, Jean walks around Trost Shopping Center. It’s a maze of stores that are a tangle of streets and turns and odd ends, sales and businesses galore. However messy the layout of the shopping center, all the streets meet in the middle circle, where a giant Christmas tree stands tall with simple white Christmas lights. It’s become the attraction to see during the daytime, but Jean thinks it’s better at night for maximum viewing pleasure. The lights are better to see against the dark sky, and with no one else around, Jean likes to sit by himself on a bench with his peppermint mocha and take it in.

No one is ever out at night in Trost. Nightlife is taken to the main city, but in this small part of town, there are no clubs or fancy restaurants. Everything is ghostly past 5pm; not a soul can be found or a shop to be open. Of course, this is the main reason why Jean ventures out into the cold by himself at the late hour of 8pm and arrives at the shopping center at half past – the lack of human existence is a beautiful thing, he thinks.

It’s because of the normal absence of the community during the night that Jean thinks it’s extremely odd to see a man on a bench, freezing his ass off with a hot cup of something held tight in his grip, sitting in front of the biggest tree in the shopping complex. The act of sitting there itself isn’t strange – it’s the largest and most festive tree in the shopping center, where all the paths connect and meet in the middle circle. There are plenty of benches surrounding the base of the tree for people to stop and rest while doing their buying throughout the day, but this is the first time that Jean’s gone on his walk to find someone sitting there after the sun has gone down.

He doesn’t want to scare him and he doesn’t want to say anything; he doesn’t know him, it would just be weird (and a little creepy). It’s not until a few minutes of staring at him does Jean realize that _staring_ is _also_ creepy, and he turns away without looking back. His usual goal of walking amongst the stores by his lonesome continues, and he forgets he saw that man as he delves further into the mesh of shops.

The second consecutive night Jean goes out on his walk, that same man is sitting in the same spot with the same hot cup of something. There are no people around and the Christmas music was cut off from the shopping center’s speakers hours ago when normal shopping time ended. Besides the slight whistle of the wind and rustle of loose decorations, it’s so silent Jean could hear his heartbeat in his ears. 

He decides to leave him be. He’s sitting by himself for a reason, much like Jean is walking _alone_ for a reason, so he leaves him be. Jean grabs his peppermint mocha at Starbucks and goes down a block of shops with shoddy, flickering lighting from the street lamps, sipping his drink while taking in the shop decorations along both sides of the street. 

The third consecutive night Jean almost goes to sit next to this man, for some odd reason. Jean reasons it’s because the nighttime lonely blues are getting to him, but stubbornness being his biggest characteristic, ignores the pangs and temptation to sit down and goes about his walk. 

It’s the fourth consecutive night that Jean thinks of seriously just giving in and plopping right down next to this man and asking just _what_ his deal is.

Jean crosses his arms over his pea coat, looking at this man looking at the tree. The tree itself is nothing spectacular – large and green and covered in simple, beautiful white lights. It’s not the most _dazzling_ thing Jean has seen as far as Christmas decorations go, but it is nice to look at. But still…sitting on a metal bench in frigid weather like this has _got_ to be biting through the bottom of this man’s jeans and numbing his butt, Jean’s sure of it. There’s no way any part of his body is warm, except the hands that grasp the hot drink.

Arms still crossed, Jean taps his pointer finger against his bicep, thinking about what to do. He doesn’t _have_ to do anything; this is just another one of his late night walks. He doesn’t have to do anything he doesn’t want to, and straying from his routine of basking in silence while breathing in cold air that fills his lungs is not something he wants to miss out on. 

Jean thoroughly enjoys taking in the scenery of the shopping center in peace after everyone’s gone for the day. He likes being by himself and he likes appreciating the town’s united efforts of festivity. The clicking of his work shoes against the pavement and the rhythmic sound of his breathing accompanied with dragon-like puffs of air from his lips is something he looks forward to. It sounds dumb to a lot of people if he admits it, but Jean thoroughly enjoys shoving his hands into his pockets as he roams the temporarily abandoned streets. He loves the smell of pine needles and coffee and of _Christmas_.

But while he does enjoy doing it alone, he thinks it’d be nice to let someone else in on it.

He’s never shared his late night escapades with anyone – not because he didn’t want to, but the thought of roaming Trost Shopping Center in the dead of night when it’s freezing outside isn’t appealing to anyone Jean knows, so he goes alone. He doesn’t mind it, but sometimes he thinks it’d be nice to walk with someone who appreciates it as much as he does.

So he breaks routine. Jean ventures into the Starbucks across the street to grab a peppermint mocha and when he leaves, he still sees that man sitting in front of the tree, taking a sip from his cup. Jean’s legs aren’t cooperating and he’s standing like an idiot in front of Starbucks, but he’s a little worried. Would it seem weird if someone just sat down on the same bench as you when there are literally twenty other empty benches to choose from? If he’s sitting by himself, does he want to be alone? Was that the whole point of coming out when no one else is around, because he wants to be alone like Jean?

Well, only one way to find out.

Jean takes a deep breath, feeling the cold air line the insides of his lungs like a greeting, and tentatively walks towards the bench this man is sitting on.

He stops just shy of twenty feet away behind him, last minute anxieties about sitting down stopping him, but Jean just shoves them into the garbage can closest to him and walks around the side of the bench. He all but falls onto the seat, grimace clear as day on his face and staring down at the Starbucks cup in his hands.

Jean doesn’t say anything. The man doesn’t say anything. The atmosphere’s a little strange, but Jean thinks it’s his fault that it feels weird.

He wants to chance a glance up at him, see if he’s angry or shuffling farther to the opposite end of the bench to get away from him, but Jean doesn’t want to take the risk. The courage it took just to sit down was enough to exhaust him, he doesn’t know if he can bear any sign of rejection.

Curiosity being the nagging little bitch that it was, Jean can’t help but sit up a little straighter and not-so-covertly quickly glances to his left at the man sitting next to him. 

Thankfully, he’s not looking. His gaze is still locked on the tree in front of them, and Jean is about to look back down to his coffee cup when he sees him smile. This man, face faintly illuminated by the white glow of the Christmas lights and shop window signs around them, is beautiful. He’s got nothing short of a hundred freckles dotting his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, the corners of his eyes. He’s not blankly staring at the tree, no – he’s _smiling._ It’s not an outright grin or a cheesy smile – it’s warm, appreciative, content. He looks like there’s no other place he wants to be at this very second other than on this cold metal bench with a hot cup of something in front of a town Christmas tree.

Jean is stunned. His heart is still beating and he hasn’t lost _all_ his senses, but he’s a little shocked, if he’s honest. Not because this man is attractive or that he seems like a nice guy, but he looks genuinely happy. Jean thinks that maybe this guy appreciates the holiday season as much as he does – even if it does seem ridiculously embarrassing to say. It lights something in Jean he can’t quite place.

What he _can_ place is the sinking of his organs into his feet when the man turns his head and looks at him.

Jean is pretty sure he looks constipated if the man’s laugh is anything to go by and his organs sink even further to the ground in embarrassment.

“Pretty, isn’t it? The tree, I mean.” The man’s voice is deeper than Jean was expecting, but it’s just as nice as the rest of him; smooth and _warm_ , like you could wrap yourself up in it and everything would be fine as long as you could hear it.

Jean doesn’t know what to say back, doesn’t know if he should agree that the tree he thinks is mediocre in the decoration department is pretty, or if he should just not say anything.

For once, Jean’s doesn't say something stupid, just nods his head and squeaks out, “Yeah.”

They both turn their heads back to the tree, each taking turns sipping their drink at odd intervals, and the rest of their time sitting on a bench with numb butts passes in oddly comfortable silence.

 

* * *

 

The fifth night Jean goes to the shopping center, the guy is there again. At this point, Jean is firmly convinced that he’s got some fixation of unfeeling bottoms if he wants to sit on that bench every damn night.

Regardless, Jean purchases his peppermint mocha and goes to sit back down on the bench. 

The man looks at him and smiles, offering a small nod of acknowledgement before turning his attention back to the tree. Jean fidgets with the cardboard jacket around his cup, turning it around and around until he gets bored and looks up at the tree, too.

The longer he stares, the more lights Jean sees. Whoever put the lights around the branches did a great job, Jean thinks, because there are lights on literally _every_ branch. Not a spot is left uncovered in light, each one evenly spaced, and it makes Jean smile. Cold air kisses his cheeks and tousles his hair, and with a shimmy of his shoulders and a little slink down, Jean settles into the bench and pretends he can still feel the lower half of his backside.

Neither of them says anything. Jean drinks his coffee, the man drinks his drink, and the silence stretches. It’s not uncomfortable; quite the opposite actually. Jean doesn’t feel the need to say anything or make meaningless conversation, and he likes that – there aren’t many people he knows that he can do this with. It’s a comforting silence that envelops them and reassures Jean that, yeah, his night outings are well worth it, even if he isn’t walking around.

Just like the night before, the man is the first to speak again.

“You’re usually walking around. What made you choose to sit?” 

Jean looks over at him to see that the tree is still the focus of his attention, but the small hints of a smile tell him that that was directed at him. He looks back to the tree, too, and watches as two white birds sit on the top-most branch, not really thinking when he blurts out, “Dunno. Thought you might want a distraction from losing sensation in your ass.”

It takes a minute, but when Jean realizes what he said, his eyes go incredibly wide and he slowly turns to see the stranger’s reaction. He’s expecting mortification, disgust, uncomfortable fidgeting, something negative that will tell him this whole sitting next to him thing was a bad idea. Hell, he even expects a snappy remark or a downright yell of amazement at Jean’s blatant lack of tact.

What he’s _not_ expecting, what he’s written in at the _very bottom_ of the expectancy list, is a laugh.

This man is laughing. He’s got one hand holding the coffee cup now, the other trying to hide his lips behind his palm while he laughs. His eyes are squeezed shut and the creases in the corners of his eyes cause some of his freckles to disappear within the folds of them, and Jean can’t help but think how nice his laugh is. For some reason, it reminds him of Christmas bells, of a pleasant ring that isn’t too harsh or too loud. It’s as warm as his speaking voice and Jean is more than shocked when he thinks that he wants to hear more of it.

When his laugh comes to an end, the man returns his hand to his cup, lacing his fingers around the cardboard. 

“My butt is safe from the cold, because you see, I wear thermal pants under my jeans. No cold nipping at my cheeks on these nights, no sir.”

He’s lighthearted. He’s making a joke. He’s being _friendly_ with the stranger that is Jean, that he has never met before and knows nothing about. 

Jean’s heart swells and he’s pretty sure he’s cracked a smile.

“Oh yeah? Must be difficult to walk, you must look like a waddling penguin.”

The man laughs again and Jean basks in the victory. “You get used to it after a while.”

“I’ll bet.” 

The two settle into silence again and before Jean knows it, his drink is gone and it's a quarter to midnight.

Jean stands up to leave, brushing imaginary dust and fallen snowflakes from his pea coat, when the man stops him. 

“What’s your name?”

Jean looks over his shoulder at him, the man’s ankle crossed over his knee and fingers still laced around a half-full cup of hot something that he bets has to be tea. He’s looking up at him with a soft expression and a smile like a parting gift that Jean thinks can surely melt the snow around them.

“Jean.”

He nods his head, finishes the rest of his drink, and stands up next to Jean with an outstretched hand. “Marco.”

Jean, still smiling, shakes his hand and lingers for just a millisecond longer before letting go. 

“Good to know you have a name.” 

“Good to know they’re different.”

 

* * *

 

It’s late and Jean’s fingers are beginning to lose their feeling from the absence of a hot cup in his hands. His toes are tingling and his lungs are protesting against inhaling _too_ much cold air. His body is craving for warmth and as much as he’d love to sit on the bench with this guy right this second, he needs to thaw.

Jean thinks that coincidence truly is a wonderful thing, because when he opens the door to Starbucks on the sixth night, after not seeing Marco in his spot on the bench, he sees him in line to get his drink. Luckily, there’s only one person in front of Marco and no one behind him, and Jean thinks it’s a good opportunity to strengthen…whatever it is the two of them have started.

Marco orders his drink, a grande cinnamon dolce latte with whipped cream, and goes to take out his wallet before Jean interrupts. 

Jean steps beside Marco and in front of the register. “Can you add a grande peppermint mocha to that cinnamon thing?” The cashier is looking a little confused, clearly wondering if Jean was just cutting in front of Marco to have him pay for his drink or if he was just too impatient that he couldn’t wait. Jean just rolls his eyes and says, “Same order. They’re both on me.” The woman nods and rings up the drinks and Jean pays before she leaves the counter to make them.

They both turn to each other, Jean with a wide smile on his face at Marco’s bewilderment of the entire situation. “I didn’t peg you as a cinnamon kind of guy, but I guess I can see it now.”

“Hello to you, too.” 

The two walk to the other side of the counter, waiting on their drinks that come a few minutes later. Their bubble of silence sits between them, snug and welcome as they make their way out of Starbucks to their bench.

It might be Jean’s imagination, but he thinks they’re sitting closer than usual.

Marco’s sitting in his signature position, ankle crossed over his knee and fingers locked around his cup of _coffee_ , not tea like Jean had originally thought, and Jean is smiling. He’s always smiled during the holiday season, but the settled warmth in his chest that’s come from the formation of a companion who enjoys the nighttime luminescent decorations as much as he does only heightens his contentment. He’s not overjoyed, he’s not giddy – he’s at ease in his favorite environment with someone who isn’t half bad. 

That night, silence seems to elude them. For the first time in four years, Jean is ignoring the Christmas decorations and his holiday walks at night in favor of learning about Marco. He spends two hours with his left side against the back of the bench, legs crossed beneath him and coffee in his lap, listening to Marco talk. It’s not too personal and it’s not forced. They make jokes, they talk about the people they see frequent the shopping center. Conversation is easy and the more they speak, the more Jean learns about him. Jean picks up on how Marco scratches the tip of his nose when he’s embarrassed and the way his voice gets higher when he finds a topic he’s excited about. Jean notices that Marco is right-handed from lifting the drink to his lips, which he also notices has a near perfect cupid’s bow. Jean doesn’t know if he’s being overly attentive or what, but he sees. And he likes it.

Two hours seem like two minutes and before they know it, it’s a quarter to midnight. 

Marco is the first to stand up and throw his empty cup in the trash next to the bench, eagerly stuffing his hands into his coat pockets to replace the heat the coffee provided them with.

Jean, though – Jean doesn’t stand up.

He doesn’t want to stand up. He can’t feel 47% of his body and he’s pretty sure if he had feeling in his face he’d know that his nose was running, but he doesn’t want to stand up. Oddly enough, he had fun. It’s been a long time since someone’s bullshitted with him, and he enjoyed it. It’s been a long time since Jean _wanted_ to bullshit with someone, and whether or not it’s because Marco is a near stranger that it makes it more interesting, Jean had a nice time. 

He’s twirling the cup in his hands, hearing the last drops of coffee he couldn’t drink slosh around the confines. He mutters to Marco, “You’ll be here tomorrow, right?”

Jean has absolutely zero idea what makes him ask the question, but he can’t be completely embarrassed because he wants to know. He doesn’t know what this pull to Marco is and he doesn’t know where the fuck it came from, but he’d be lying if he didn’t enjoy spending his time with someone he’d like to get to know.

Marco looks down at him, half of his face buried in the cream colored scarf that's tightly wound around his neck, but Jean can tell he’s smiling from the freckles that disappear into the corners of his eyes. He’s pretty sure that his heart knows it too, if the skipped beat is any hint.

“Yeah, I’ll be here.” Marco rocks back and forth on his heels once, twice, before adding, “Will you?”

Jean is smiling before he can stop himself. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be here.”

 

* * *

 

Every night, from the day after Thanksgiving to the night before Christmas Eve, Jean and Marco meet at Starbucks for their coffee and move to their bench. Every night their hands go numb and the wind beats at them and whistles down the streets of the shopping center. Every night is a night of discoveries, of uncharted waters and hidden treasures that they find out about each other, and the journey doesn’t end.

Christmas Eve sneaks up on them, and Jean and his not-so-stranger Marco are there. Jean has made a Christmas joke and Marco’s laughing so hard he’s sure coffee is bound to come out of his nose at some point. 

It’s been a whole month since they’ve met. A whole month since they’ve shared a bench and weird facts about each other and weird facts about the world and jokes and Christmas traditions they do. It’s been an entire thirty days of Jean finding ways to make Marco laugh, of Marco finding ways to see what makes Jean tick and vice versa.

It’s been thirty days and Jean is in love.

He thinks it’s a little ridiculous because there’s still a ton to learn about him, but he’s as sure that he’s in love with Marco as much as he’s sure about the sky being blue and snow being cold. He’s as sure that he wants to kiss Marco as bad as he wants to drive around with him, blasting Christmas carols on the radio and holding his hand over the console. 

He’s as sure about loving Marco as he is about anything and everything, and the urge to kiss him wins.

Marco is mid-sentence, something about the last book he’s read, when Jean closes the distance between them and finally, _finally_ knows how soft Marco’s lips are. 

Marco is…well, he’s surprised, to say the least. He was talking about _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ and how much he loved it, but now he wants to talk about how much he loves kissing Jean and how sweet it tastes after waiting so long for him to do it. Marco knew, or he _thought_ he knew; the “stolen” glances Jean gave him and how he wanted to linger before going home each night weren’t exactly subtle. Marco knew the very first time Jean sat down that this wasn’t going to be an ordinary meet and farewell, and he couldn’t have been more thankful.

Jean is kissing him and Marco is sure he’s in love.

Jean thinks Marco tastes of cinnamon, of strong coffee laced with sugar. Marco feels like sunlight against Jean’s cold skin that immediately heats up when Marco’s hand comes to rest against his cheek. It’s like ice cubes being placed under the summer sun that melt away with each beating ray and the cold that plagues Jean’s skin melts with every touch, every slow kiss that neither of them wants to end and soon, he’s completely thawed. 

Marco thinks Jean tastes of peppermint, of winter nights and snowflakes gone astray. Jean feels like the refreshing chill of a morning that has yet to see the sun, of cool air that nips the tips of your fingers down to your toes and wakes you up. The blazing inferno inside of Marco is dimmed down by Jean’s skin, by every slow kiss that neither of them wants to end and soon, he’s been cooled.

There is no urgency; there is no need to rush and no place to be.

Their first kisses are slow and purely for the sake of savoring in the fact that they’re _kissing_. 

Their second kisses are previewed by bouts of nervous but giddy laughter that lead into something more appreciative, something that’s more relieved that they’re actually kissing the other. They’re longer, more sure, but retain the slow pace, like if they go too fast they’ll miss it entirely. 

Their third kisses are interrupted. Where Marco’s blazing heat defrosted Jean’s cold skin, the cold comes back, because it starts to snow.

Their third kisses stop as Jean and Marco look up at the sky. It’s pitch black, only the store lights and street lamps illuminating the shopping center, and so deadly quiet. The sound of their breathing and the flutter of a bird’s wings are the only sounds to be heard, and the snow is falling.

It’s the most peaceful snowfall Jean’s ever witnessed.

The wind, for once, is absent, and so each flake takes it’s time meeting the surface of rooftops, branches, pavement. Everything is completely still and snow is falling and before Jean knows it, Marco stands up and stares at the sky, the biggest smile on his face he’s seen him wear yet. 

Jean stands up with him, taking hold of one of his hands and leading them into something of a dance. It’s more of gently rocking back and forth in clockwise motions, but it’s a dance. With Jean’s cheek resting over Marco’s heart and Marco’s cheek resting on top of Jean’s head, the two dance in lazy circles, round and round beneath the fallen snow. Marco surprises Jean by dipping him, Jean wildly clutching at Marco’s coat sleeves to keep from falling, but Marco whispers words of reassurance that he won’t drop him. 

Before Marco can lift him back up, Jean kisses him. As he straightens up, Jean kisses him. As he laces their fingers together in front of the stupid beautiful Christmas tree in the middle of the complex, Jean kisses him. Marco’s laughing into their kisses and Jean’s pulling away to slap at his arm, saying something about not laughing while he’s trying to have a moment, before Marco silences Jean by peppering his entire face in more feather-light kisses. 

Jean feels like he was born to do this, born to be kissing this stranger and born to be learning everything about him. 

Marco feels like he was born to do this, born to be loving this stranger and kissing the breath out of him, only to breathe it back in. 

Jean’s favorite holiday has always been Christmas because he loves the absence of people in the Trost Shopping Center. He loves walking alone down streets with brightly-lit stores and displays with flickering streetlamps to guide him. He loves the complete silence and the time to himself where he can enjoy the cold and clear his head. Out of every other time during the year, this is Jean’s favorite.

But as much as Jean loves being alone, he thanks all of his lucky stars that Marco was the one person to be sitting on this stupid freezing bench. 

The tree is still charmingly average and the bench still makes his butt numb, but Jean wouldn’t have it any other way.

Neither would Marco.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://asahisexual.tumblr.com/) // [twitter](https://twitter.com/heichousexual)


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